


Tiny Miracles

by therutherfordwife



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Abuse, Annabelle is not a happy character, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Indentured Servitude
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-08-14 23:02:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8032441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therutherfordwife/pseuds/therutherfordwife
Summary: Annabelle grew up in Honnleath, laughing and playing with her best friend Rosalie. When her father, a renowned apothecary, plunged the family into debt with his Guild to save them during the Blight and then lost his life to a sudden illness, the burden of repayment fell to Annabelle as she alone followed in her father's footsteps within the Guild. Indentured and abused, her master takes her to the Inquisition where she is reunited with a dear childhood friend in the form of her own brother-in-law, Cullen Rutherford. No longer alone and unsupported, can she find the courage to break free of Guildmaster Turner's tyranny and abuse?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this started as a happy drabble, and then I was doing research and my mind went _Angst!_ and now it's not a happy drabble. TW for an extremely abusive relationship, I don't think I'll do too much of the abuse super blatantly outside of this chapter but if I do I will definitely warn everybody.

The children ran by in a pack, laughing and screeching in excitement as they ducked around and between the vendors of the fair. Golden sunlight lit the world in the most warm and comforting way, the green of the nearby fields accentuated by the blue of the river. It was a day where spring seemed all too eager to give way to summer, and the merriment of the fair brought all the joy to the children that they would think back on in fondness for the rest of their lives.

Annabelle danced among the stall gleefully, her dark hair streaming behind her as she fled from her brother’s best friend; it was frustratingly difficult to win a game of tag when the person who was it had such longer legs than she did, but she was determined to put forth her best effort nonetheless. Her own best friend, Rosalie, collided with her out of nowhere.

“Run, Annie! I’ll hold him off!” she screeched before launching herself at her big brother.

“Rosie, augh! Get off! You’re it, you little demon, good luck catching anyone!”

Annabelle ran swiftly away from the bickering siblings and threw herself into the stable behind the inn and hid in the nearest stall. All she had to do was wait for Rosie to run by . . .

The thumping of quick feet interrupted her plans and before she had a chance to escape another body was pressing into her hiding spot. “Hey!” she whispered angrily. “I was here first!”

“Annie? Maker’s breath, move over!”

“I’ma tell your mother you cursed!”

“I’ll throw you into the trough if you do!”

She sucked in a panicked breath; the winter before last she’d fallen through the ice on the river, and when she’d tried to swim back up, to her horror she’d met only ice. The cold had permeated her very bones, and the feeling of being trapped in the frozen horror unable to breathe had been far worse than anything she had ever experienced. She’d pounded uselessly on the ice, trying in vain to break through until the freezing water had been sucked into her lungs and she’d felt herself drifting into a frozen darkness.

The next thing she remembered was waking up in her own bed, sicker than she’d ever been in her life and with the strangest feeling that the ice had never left her body. She’d been sick all through the winter, finally recovering as the snow retreated and the world returned to green and gold, but since that event she’d been unable to convince herself to go near water of any kind, not even a bath; she’d taken instead to washing herself with rags rather being inundated in a tub.

The idea of being thrown into a trough of water was nothing but horror.

Not waiting for him to carry out his threat, she shoved with all her might and was rewarded for her efforts when the larger boy stumbled out of the stall. Unwilling to wait for his retribution, she lunged forward and pushed again, running out of the stable as fast as her feet could carry her even as she heard the telltale squelch of him falling into the manure pile.

“Ugh! I’ll get you for that, Annabelle Peters!”

“I’d like to see you try, Cullen Rutherford!”

 

 

Skyhold was so much bigger than she’d imagined. Annabelle found that she couldn’t take her eyes from the looming walls and towers as their cart rumbled across the bridge. Master Turner sat beside her in the cart, using his riding crop to encourage their horse to a faster crossing of the long bridge. She jumped slightly every time the crop snapped, trying to force herself to calm. Her relief of the journey’s end was almost entirely negated by Master Turner’s obvious irritation; he’d been on edge these last few days, and she’d bore the brunt of that displeasure. 

They were met in the courtyard by a small contingent of aides who immediately began to unload the cart. Turner waved for Annabelle to help them as he spoke vigorously with the man who seemed to be in charge of their lodging. That she was not to be included in the exchange was a monumental relief; she didn’t think she could stand to hear Turner’s insufferable patronizing for another instant. She was giving instruction of which boxes were to be put where and which needed to be handled with care when the most unexpected thing happened.

“Annie?”

Annabelle froze in the act of unloading her supplies from the cart. She hadn’t been called ‘Annie’ in some ten years, not since her family had been forced to flee Honnleath during the Blight. She turned slowly, careful not to topple her precariously balanced boxes until she could see who had called her by her childhood nickname.

The man before her was tall, well armored, and with a commanding presence she could only imagine coming from a general. She peered around him in search of the one who’d called her name; surely such a man as this would never have known the likes of her. 

A snort brought her sharp eyes back to the soldier’s face where a small smirk had grown, tugging the corner of his scarred lip in a most endearing way. “Annie Peters. You don’t remember me?”

If she’d ever met a man so handsome, Maker be sure she would never have forgotten it. She glanced at Turner, grateful that he hadn’t caught wind of the attention she was receiving or else she would never hear the end of it later. There was something vaguely familiar about the man, but . . . “I am afraid you must be mistaken, my lord. I don’t -”

He stepped closer. “Perhaps if I were to fall into a pile of manure? Or threaten you with a dumping in the water trough? I daresay we hardly parted on good terms, but surely you can forgive an ignorant young boy his idiocy.”

 _Oh, Maker._ “Cullen?” _Impossible_ , her mind shrieked. Maker, he’d been adorable as a boy, and now she could see how the boy had grown into such a man as this, but the transformation was . . . _astonishing._ “Oh, Maker, what are you doing here? I thought you were a templar now, but templars don’t wear armor like that and I daresay they don’t put so much effort into their hair.”

His smirk broadened into a grin, and he closed the distance between them in order to remove her burdens from her arms and handed them to the nearest aide. “What are _you_ doing here? Last I heard, you were still terrorizing the youth of South Reach. Maker watch the child who thinks to get the better of little Annie Fists. Tell me, did your brother ever recover from when you punched him in front of Mia? I know he was sweet on her at the time, Maker, he was mortified.” Cullen laughed, a warm and rich sound that Annabelle greatly wanted to hear again.

She quirked a small smile of her own. “Not entirely, no. But they did end up marrying, in the end, so it would seem she forgave him his embarrassment.”

His eyes widened for a split second before narrowing in something that looked remarkably like pain. “I didn’t realize . . . I knew she had married, I just . . . I don’t recall ever thinking to ask to _whom._ Maker, I’m an idiot.”

“I’m sure you had other things on your mind, if you outfit is any indication. Tell me, what exactly is your rank? I’d hate to be monopolizing your time if you’ve become someone so important,” she said softly with another glance at Turner. He was watching her out of the corner of his eye; shit. 

“I’m just - no, please, you’re not monopolizing anything, Annie, I’m -”

“Commander Rutherford, ser! The Inquisitor is asking for you in the War Room as soon as you are available!”

“Commander?” Annabelle’s eyes flew wide.

He gave a small aborted sigh and reddened slightly. “Tell the Inquisitor I’ll be there as soon as I am finished here. Tell him . . . I am with family.” The messenger gaped at her. “Now, Jim!” Cullen growled.

Annabelle stared at him. Cullen Rutherford, sweet, endearing Cullen Rutherford, Commander of the Inquisition? “Maker save me, Cullen, how did that happen?”

The shadow passed over his eyes again. “Through a very long and unfortunate sequence of events.” He cleared his throat. “I should be going. But perhaps, once I’m done with the Inquisitor, you could be bothered to have dinner? With me?”

“I am afraid, good Ser, that Annie will be occupied this evening. Might I inquire as to who you are to be so bold with my apprentice?” Guildmaster Turner appeared beside Annabelle as if materializing from the Fade, causing her to nearly jump out of her skin.

Annabelle could see the surprise and anger rise in Cullen and quickly intervened. “Master Turner, this is Cullen Rutherford, Commander of the Inquisition’s forces and my brother-in-law,” she emphasized the last. So long as Turner didn’t see him as a threat, everything would be fine . . .

“That’s right, I am, aren’t I? I keep forgetting.” Cullen extended a hand to Turner, grasping it firmly. “A pleasure, Master Turner. You are to be our new apothecary, correct? I saw your requisitions earlier this week. It will be good to have our medicines so easily accessible. I’m sure you and Annie will settle in wonderfully with the Inquisition,” he said with a smile at Annabelle.

“Annie?” Turner’s already ruffled feathers grew more upset at Cullen’s familiar addressing of her, and an awkward silence fell as the men considered each other warily.

“I go by Annabelle now, Cullen,” she said softly, without meeting his eyes and hoping he hadn’t noticed how Turner had called her Annie just moments before.

“Oh. I’m sorry, Annabelle, I’ll try to remember.” She could hear his confusion over her sudden change of demeanor. “Master Turner, once you and Annabelle are settled, would you allow me to borrow her for a time? I am afraid I have been sorely lacking finding time to write letters home, and there is much I would have Annabelle tell me of my family.”

 _Please, please say yes,_ Annabelle prayed. _He’s family, please see that he’s just family, nothing will happen if you just. Say. Yes. Please!_ She kept her face impassively blank. If Turner knew how important this was for her . . .

Turner heaved a deliberately annoyed sigh, shocking Annabelle with his disrespect for the Inquisition’s Commander. “I might be able to spare her some small time once we’ve settled. Shall I send you a runner when we’re ready?”

Cullen was obviously taken aback by Turner’s forcefulness. “Yes, please. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Master Turner, I must go and meet with the Inquisitor. Master Turner,” he inclined his head. “Annabelle,” he reached out and gently clasped her hand, bringing it up and swiftly pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

She watched him walk away with a mixture of hope and foreboding. No sooner was he out of sight then a resounding _smack!_ filled the air and her cheek blossomed in pain; long practice kept her from crying out. “I will never see such forward, wanton behaviour out of you again, you hear me?” hissed Turner. “You are here to work off your father’s debts, not to throw yourself at the first man to show the smallest hint of a smile. Come; let us get settled. We have much work to do.”

Despair filled her as Turner led her away. 

_Please, Maker, let this nightmare end._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slowly cranking out bit by bit ^.^ I've actually had most of this chapter done since like three days after the first went up, and I totally _thought_ I posted it but turns out I . . . didn't. *facepalm* So I moved us a bit further along and there should be more coming out before school starts up again in January. Updating consistently will not last, however, and I am so sorry about that, but I'm bouncing between three fics during winter break and then I'll go back to focusing on one when school starts up again. But for now you get an update! Wooh! :D

Annabelle’s whole body ached; she pushed herself groaning to her feet, stumbling to her small chest of clothes and pulling on the first thing she grasped. Turner snored softly on the bed, and she cringed when he rolled over, relaxing when the snoring resumed and slipping quietly from the room.

He hadn’t told her to stay, after all.

She walked softly down the hall and made her way up the stairs that led to the beautiful rotunda, ignoring the paintings in favor of reaching the door to the hanging bridge outside. The chill pre-dawn air was invigorating, clearing her head and calming her pounding heart. She’d always loved the dawn; loved how the whole world seemed to take a deep breath before coming alive with energy. She often felt like her whole life since her father’s death was like the pre-dawn; waiting to come alive, but never quite coming forth from her cocoon. 

“Annabelle?”

She started badly, gasping in surprise before realizing the speaker wasn’t Turner. No, it was Cullen. “What are you doing up so early?” She said shakily, tugging slightly at the end of her sleeves to make sure they covered her wrists.

“I . . . I don’t sleep well. Not since - “ he sighed. “I don’t sleep well.”

“Me either.” 

They lapsed into an awkward silence. It’d been years since they’d seen each other; they’d been kids. She was only ten when he’d left to join the templars; so much had changed since then. For both of them.

Cullen cleared his throat. “How are you settling in? You’ve been here for a few weeks now, I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to come see you. I’ve heard only good things about the new apothecaries, though. Healer Vanna was especially grateful for your assistance with Maria’s birth last week.”

She turned away from his gaze. “It’s not your fault, Cullen. You’re Commander, you shouldn’t apologize for not finding time for someone like me.”

He scoffed. “Annabelle, I don’t think I need to tell you how awful a brother I’ve been over the last ten years. I know I’m only your brother-in-law, but . . . I haven’t thought of my childhood in _years,_ Annie. Seeing you by the gates? You reminded me that life isn’t always toil and pain. With you here, maybe . . . Maybe I can start to remember what it’s like to be a brother instead of a soldier.”

“I am the last person you should be seeking happiness from, Cullen. And it’s Annabelle, please.” 

Cullen regarded her for a long moment before scoffing once more. “Annabelle. I don’t remember you being this . . .”

“Depressing?”

“Lonely.”

She was silent as the sun finally shed its first light over the mountains. “I don’t remember you being this pessimistic.” 

“Annabelle -”

“No, Cullen, it’s all right. It’s been fifteen years, after all, we aren’t children anymore. You’re not the young man I had a crush on anymore and I’ll never be the same annoying brat you only put up with because James was your best friend and Rosie was mine. You’re a Commander, I’m an apothecary _apprentice_ ,” she spat the word. “I know what happened at Kinloch, Cullen, and I am well aware that Kirkwall is a shithole. Guilds know everything. I don’t know what happened to you, but whatever you’ve been through can’t have been easy or good. You stopped writing _Mia_ , for goodness sake!”

“And what about you?” Cullen accused. “I had Leliana look into your history, why didn’t you tell me your father died? You’re one of the best apothecaries in Ferelden, yet you’re still an apprentice under that prick Turner because of your father’s debts. I can help, you, Annabelle, the Inquisition can -”

“I don’t need your help, Cullen. It’s something that just takes time and hard work. I have plenty of both.”

“Does James know?”

“Know what?” 

“That you’re indentured. Does anyone know?”

“. . . No. James and Mia had only just been married, and between them trying to have their family and Father dying? I couldn’t add to their stress. I was already being trained as an apothecary, they offered to indenture me under a master I could learn from. Work til Father’s debts are paid, then apply for Journeyman.” She met Cullen’s golden eyes, filled with concern and lit by the rising sun. “I’m so close, Cullen, please. Just a few more months.”

He sighed. “I won’t force you to accept aid you don’t want. I know better than most how useless it is to try to help someone who does not wish to be helped.” He turned away.

Anxiety and guilt flashed through her. “Cullen, wait -” fear locked her throat before she could finish. She changed her mind. “I can’t get away from the workroom very often,” she said slowly. “But . . . if you wish to speak to me, or need help with something, you might . . . come visit?”

“I’d like that, I think. Maker knows I haven’t been the best brother over the years, but I’d like to think I can get better. You’re family, Annabelle. Don’t forget it.”

Family. Did she actually remember what that was like? Turner’s face swam in her mind, but she flung the thought away. “I won’t,” she promised.

 

 

Every step Cullen took up to the infirmary beat through his skull like a drum trying to pound its way out his eyes. He hadn’t had a migraine so bad since . . . ever? Hopefully the healers could do something. After the haranguing Cassandra had given him when she realized how bad it was, he’d almost rather have the whole mountain Skyhold sat upon land on him than deal with her again.

Raised voices almost caused him to groan aloud. Arguing? In the infirmary? Surely that couldn’t be of any help to the patients. It wasn’t until he was actually in the room that he realized who was yelling.

It was Annabelle.

“Absolutely not! What they’re describing needs an anti-spasmodic, not an anti-inflammatory. If you give them the herbal poultice, all it will do is encourage the body to fight itself. The body doesn’t need to fight anything, they need to _relax._ ”

“You’re disregarding the symptoms! Ingesting the elfroot -”

“They’ve already tried that, and it had no effect. If it had done anything, I would agree, but it didn’t so there isn’t any infection to root out. If there’s no infection, then we have to move on to the next possibility, which is that it’s spasmodic. If the treatment doesn’t work, we can move on to the next thing.” 

Cullen stared. He had no idea what they were talking about, but Annabelle was _alive_ with energy, her long blonde hair pulled away from her face and she was more animated than he’d seen her since her arrival. Not that he’d seen her much. For whatever reason, she never seemed to be around when he came looking for her, and when they did bump into each other she was usually so busy she barely had time to spare him a glance. Five months she’d been here, and all he’d been able to give her was one measly conversation that still didn’t sit right with him, though he couldn’t put a finger on why. She’d been almost . . . skittish. Not at all like the Annie he remembered.

He went to push himself into the room and stumbled against the door frame, head lighting instantly with pain. Before he could right himself, a hand was pressed under his breastplate and another held caught him by the arm. “Cullen!”

“Annabelle,” he gasped. “I came -”

“Turner, help me get him to a cot!” she called sharply as she struggled to hold up the fully armored and much larger man. A second pair of arms wrapped around him and before he knew what was happening he found himself off his feet and lying haphazardly on a cot. “Cullen, Cullen can you hear me? I need to know what’s wrong. Can you tell me what’s wrong? When’s the last time you ate?”

He didn’t want to tell her. Didn’t want her to know how pitiful he was, that he couldn’t even fight off the claws of lyrium without being reduced to a shadow of a man who couldn’t even keep his eyes open through the pain.

“Damn it, Rutherford, you tell me right now or I swear by the Maker I’ll drag you down to the stable and shove you in the manure pile!”

He choked on a laugh. “I’ll tell James you cursed,” he whispered.

“By the time you tell James, you’ll be better and I won’t care anymore. What’s _wrong,_ Cullen?”

“Lyrium,” he gasped. “I stopped taking it when I left Kirkwall.”

Silence. “When did you leave Kirkwall?”

“Almost a year ago.”

 _”Maker,”_ she breathed. "Turner, I need a liniment and an alterative. Make it the rashvine mixture, the one in the green bottle. And -” she pressed her fingers to the sides of his head and then pinched the skin between his thumb and fingers. “The prophet’s laurel. Get me the prophet’s laurel mixture as well.”

Cullen groaned when he felt the tugging at his armor. “Stop, I’ll be fine, I just need a headache relief.”

“You will not be fine, you do not just need a headache relief, and you are not going anywhere until I say you are. Blast, Reynolds!” she called. “Help me get his armor off, I don’t have a clue where all the straps go.”

Cullen tried to bat the hands away, but his wrists were taken in a surprisingly strong grip. He pried his eyes open and gazed up into the warm brown eyes of his childhood friend. “Annabelle,” he whispered.

“Rest, Cullen. I’ve got you now, rest and recover. You’re not the first Templar I’ve helped through this.”

Rest. When was the last time he’d rested? Too long ago, surely. Resting for a little while could be forgiven, surely? His eyes closed almost against his will and a cup was pressed to his lips, Annabelle holding his head up to help him drink as Reynolds wrestled his breastplate off.

Rest. _I can rest now_ , he thought before his awareness faded.


	3. Chapter 3

Annabelle sat silently beside Cullen’s cot in the infirmary, watching the strange man breathe calmy as he slept. It was strange, even after several months of seeing him now, to come to terms with how he had changed.

He was bigger, for one thing. Much bigger. And not just taller, but broader and more . . . _solid_ than he had been. It was to be expected after all; he had been a single-minded but somewhat scrawny youth before he’d left to join the templars. Almost absently she reached out and brushed a lock of hair off of his forehead. It used to be curly, she remembered with a small smile. 

Cullen released a small sigh in his sleep and shifted restlessly. Annabelle snatched her hand back immediately, looking around to see if anyone . . . if _Turner_ had seen. It was a stupid, irrational fear; he’d gone to bed hours ago, with the disdainful agreement that she might stay pried from him only when Lady Cassandra insisted she stay with the Commander. Apparently Cullen had told her of his sister-in-law’s arrival in Skyhold; it made her wonder feel exposed to be recognizable to people she’d never met.

“You should be sleeping,” came the soft whisper from the cot. Annabelle started and snapped her eyes up to find Cullen’s sleepy golden gaze upon her.

“Go back to sleep,” she shushed him. “You have a miserable few days ahead of you. You need your rest.”

His scarred lip pulled up into a sardonic sort of smirk. “I’ve already rested more than I have in months.”

“You should have come to me sooner.”

“I thought . . . I have not wanted to intrude upon you when you are clearly uncomfortable in my presence.” The resignation in his voice broke her heart. “I don’t know what’s happened to you, Annabelle, but if make things worse for you in any way, I don’t want you to feel like you _have_ to be around me.” 

She broke his gaze, staring at her hands. “Cullen,” she started to say.

“Do you remember Old Lady Beni?”

The question was so out of place, so absurd given their situation that she couldn’t help but laugh helplessly. “Of course I do. Hard to forget the woman who declared me ‘criminally incompetent in my ability to breathe’.”

“She used to tell me you were the one who was going to force some sense into me. I thought she was just crazy but . . .” he chuckled darkly. “It seems there was some truth to her ramblings after all.”

Annabelle gently felt his forehead. “You’re feverish. You need to go back to sleep.”

Cullen caught her hand and brought it to his cheek. Annabelle froze. Instinct warring with the knowledge that this was _Cullen._ He wouldn’t hurt her . . . right? “Thank you, Annabelle.”

“You’re not the first Templar I’ve helped through lyrium addiction, Cullen. I know what it looks like and I know what helps. You don’t have to thank me.”

He regarded her carefully in silence. It unnerved her, the way he seemed to see right through her. “What happened to you, to make you so certain you aren’t worth people’s love?”

She pulled her hand away. “Someone who doesn’t stand up for themselves shouldn’t put their troubles onto others.” She stood abruptly, crossing the room before returning with a small vial. “Drink this.”

“Annabelle -” his words were cut off as she forced the vial to his lips. He sputteringly swallowed the burning liquid, before trying once again to speak only to find himself rapidly succumbing to sleep. “Annabelle, let me . . . help,” he whispered as darkness claimed him.

Standing beside his bed, watching the troubled man’s brow ease into sleep, Annabelle released a shaky breath. Fear as familiar as her own hands spiraled through her body like vines intent on choking the life from her. If he knew, if he ever suspected the things she’d let Turner do to her . . . 

Who could possibly respect a woman like her? Let alone love one?

The words from Rosie’s letter echoed in her head as she retreated across the room to the workspace, determined to finish the potion supplies Turner’d been asked to supply for the upcoming assault in Orlais. Maker knew he’d never be able to actually provide the potions, drunk as he was every damn minute of the damn day.

 

_I know how you used to dote on him, Annie, you can’t tell me you aren’t excited to see him again! I know you too well. And besides, Mia received a letter just the other day from the man himself. You’re all he talked about! He’s so excited you’re there, Annie, I can’t even begin to tell you. Mia was furious, because you write all the time to James and she was hoping for news of him. Not that she doesn’t appreciate him writing at all, and certainly she loves to hear about you, she just wants to know more about how he’s doing. If you don’t mind, would you include an update on our brother in your reply? It would put us all at ease._

_Mia said something strange about the letter from Cullen. Please don’t be angry at us for worrying, but she said that Cullen mentioned your father’s debts to the Guild. I thought those debts were paid, that your father had paid them before he died. James insisted so as well; it had been one of the conditions our parents had insisted on for him to marry Mia. I don’t know why you told Cullen that they were why you are working under Guildmaster Turner, but he sounds like an ass and you’d be well rid of him._

_Write back soon, please. Tell me more about Skyhold, and the Inquisitor! He sounds wonderful intriguing. Take care of yourself, I know how strong you are and how hard you work. You don’t have to save everyone, Annie. You have friends, and now you have Cullen with you. He’ll watch out for you, I know he will. I don’t think even he realizes how much he loves you. Give him a hug for me? And certainly for Mia._

_We miss you, Annie. I miss you. You’re my best friend still and forever._

_Love from Rosie_

 

 

Cullen watched the Inquisitor like a hawk. Idran Lavellan had collapsed upon returning from the Fade in Adamant, something that Cullen and the others of the Inner Circle had been aware was a possibility, but had up until that point had kept relatively secret from their troops. For the general population of the Inquisition to know that their Inquisitor was subject to the falling sickness was something they’d been hoping to avoid, no one more so that Idran himself.

“Cullen, if you continue to stare at me with such intensity, the men will begin to talk.”

Cullen started, meeting the Inquisitor’s amused look sheepishly. “I’m sorry, Inquisitor. It’s just -”

“I’m not breakable, Commander. I will not fall dead from my horse mere miles from Skyhold. The situation at Adamant came from great stress and from a lack of proper preparation on my part.” Idran sighed. “I did not prepare adequately, it seems. I ran out of the potions the apothecaries gave me just as the dragon arrived.”

“Are you going to be alright for the stress of the Winter palace?”

“Cassandra and I have already discussed the situation. Rather than trying to guess at how much I might need, we’ve decided it will be in our best interests to bring along our apothecary so we can ensure I am well taken care of and resupplied as necessary.”

Cullen tried to ignore the way his heart leapt the moment the Inquisitor mentioned bringing and apothecary along. “I am certain Lady Annabelle would be delighted to accompany us to Halamshiral,” he said eagerly.

Idran snorted, shooting Cullen an amused look. “And why should I bring the Lady Annabelle, an apprentice, when there is a Master Apothecary in residence? Is there reason to suspect Turner will be inadequate?”

Ah. Right. “Not _precisely,_ ” Cullen admitted. “Though I do not appreciate the way he treats those in his employ. Turner strikes me as a hard man.”

Idran opened his mouth to reply when the familiar blast of the horn at Skyhold announced their arrival. “Someday, those horns will fail to stop my heart entirely. Settle the troops, Commander, and prepare to leave at dawn three days hence. We’re already cutting this close. Oh and Cullen?”

Cullen stopped mid-dismount and met the Inquisitor’s golden gaze. “Inform Turner that he must be ready as well. He will be coming with us.”

“Yes, Inquisitor,” Cullen said stiffly.

Idran laughed. “And inform your Lady that she might accompany us as well, if only to keep you from pouting for the next few weeks.”

Cullen couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. “Of course, Idran. Thank you.”

Idran waved him off, catching sight of Josephine and letting his focus settle on her. “Everyone deserves a chance at love, Cullen. Even her. Even _you._ ”

Cullen watched Idran as he swept Josephine into a desperate hug before disappearing into the keep. As he carried his things up to his room, he idly thumbed the lid off of the last of the potions Annabelle had given him before he left.

Just over a month since he’d last seen her. Just over a month, and not one headache.


	4. Chapter 4

Annabelle couldn’t stop staring about her in awe. Everything was new and fascinating; since they’d left Skyhold, she’d begun to fear her neck would get stiff from how much she was craning about to see everything. Her horse, a solid, dependable beast she’d named Cricket, plodded along happily following the rest of the entourage with little concern for her rider’s distraction.

“Enjoying yourself?” A lithe elf reigned in his horse beside hers, cheerfully looking about just as eagerly.

Annabelle was caught off guard by the unexpected conversation, and glanced around warily for Turner before cautiously replying. “I am, actually. I didn’t expect to be here, by any means, but I can’t imagine going through my life never having seen the Frostbacks from this side.”

“They’re quite magnificent, aren’t they?” her newfound companion agreed. “I’m Idran, by the way.”

“Annabelle.” They shook hands. “You’re Dalish?” she indicated the Vallaslin across his brow, strikingly gold against his brown skin.

“I was,” he nodded, “though I’ve been gone from the Clan for a long while, now. I’m not certain I can still claim to be one of the People anymore.”

“Do you consider yourself to still be Dalish?”

Idran was silent for a long moment. “Yes, actually.” He seemed surprised by his own admission.

“Then I hardly think anyone else will ever be able to say that you truly are not something that you feel in your soul.”

Idran’s golden eyes pierced through her, and Annabelle shifted uncomfortably on Cricket’s back. “You are surprisingly full of wisdom, miss Annabelle. I think I can see why Cullen is so infatuated by you.”

“What?”

“Inquisitor!” Lady Pentaghast rode up to them. “Lady Josephine has received word from Halamshiral she wishes to speak to you about.”

“Of course. I’ll be there momentarily. Thank you, Cass.” Cassandra nodded to them both and rode off.

“Inquisitor?” Annabelle squeaked. She’d never seen the man himself before; all she’d known was that he was an elf. And never in a million years could she have ever imagined that he’d come speak to her!

Idran grinned at her. “Milady. I’m afraid I must beg your pardon and return to my duties. Perhaps we can finish this conversation at a later date?”

Annabelle hastened to assure the man that everything was perfectly alright and watched him ride off in awe. _That . . . did not just happen,_ she thought.

“Was that the Inquisitor? What could he possibly have wanted with you?” came a sneer from behind her. Annabelle started, trying to keep her face smooth and impassive as he pulled his horse up beside hers. She couldn’t quite hold back a small flinch when he reached out to touch her cheek, and a shadow crossed his face at the reaction. “Still? After everything I’ve done for you, you still don’t trust me?”

“What have you done for me?” she snapped. “Used my research, used my skills to bolster yourself. Kept me from having friends. Kept me from my _family.”_ she threw a glance at Cullen’s golden head, far up the column but easily spotted from atop his massive warhorse.

“Gave you clothes, teachings, food. Who else could have given you access to the herbs you needed for you precious ‘research’?” he sneered. “You would be worse than nothing if it weren’t for me, _Annie._ ”

“I’d be a journeyman, at least,” she glared at her horse’s ears. She shouldn’t be arguing with him, she knew; it’d only make him furious, and he’d take it out on her once they were alone.

He drew himself up. “I am here at the Inquisitor’s insistence. You are here at his sufferance, and you will behave as is proper for the apprentice of a Master and not go dandying about speaking to those you have no business doing business with. Your behaviour of late has been positively unruly, and I will not stand for it.”

Annabelle went cold. Before she could respond, however, a stern voice broke in from behind them. “I hope the sister-in-law of the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces is being afforded the respect she deserves?”

Annabelle and Turner both turned to see the glaring eye of a massive Qunari staring down at them. She squeaked in surprise; she’d seen the Chargers in the tavern, of course, and had definitely noticed their unusual leader, but she’d never been so close to him. She got the unnerving impression from his gaze that he could see right through her.

“The respect I afford my _apprentice_ in moments of teaching is that anyone might give a recalcitrant student,” Turner said stiffly. “Don’t mistake my professional attitude for my personal one; outside of our teachings, Annie has my utmost respect.”

The Iron Bull rumbled dangerously. “Glad to hear it. But let’s see that your utmost respect is given at all times. I’d hate to have to tell Cullen that Lady Annabelle isn’t being treated well.”

Turner’s eyes narrowed, and he looked between Bull and Annabelle before giving the larger man as much of a bow as he was capable of astride a saddle before riding off, with one last glare of promised retribution for Annabelle.

She released a pent up breath. “Thank you, sir. I apologize for Turner; he sometimes lets his stress get the better of his sense.”

“Eh, don’t worry about it. That man is too tense for my liking anyway; don’t know why we brought him when we could do just fine with you.” 

Annabeth waved a hand gently, throwing a glance after Turner so see where he’d gone. “You’re kind, sir, but he is the master. I’ve still got too much to learn.”

“Right,” Bull drawled. “And I’m not one for that ‘sir’ shit. If you’re not one of mine, ‘The Iron Bull’ works just fine. Or Bull, if that’s too much of a mouthful.” He winked at her.

Something about the way he said it made her grin. “Forgive me, Bull, but I’d have to say you’re generally too much of a mouthful,” she said with a wink of her own.

He tipped his head back and roared with laughter, giving her a smack on the back that nearly knocked her off her horse. “I knew the Commander had good taste! Alright, kid, I’ve got to go get an eye on my men. You let me know if I can be of any help with that asshole, ok?”

She suppressed a shudder. _Not likely, Bull, but thanks._ “Of course. Thank you Bull.”

He gave her a cheerful wave as he rode away. A few minutes later, laughter echoed down the line of people, and Annabelle caught sight of Cullen’s golden curls at the center. The people shifted and his face appeared, bright red and grinning before disappearing from view again. Warmth flooded her chest. He looked . . . brighter, when he grinned like that. There was the same small glint of mischief she remembered from her childhood, the same glint that used to have her dreaming of sneaking off to steal a kiss, dreaming of a life with her dear knight.

She shook herself. _Those were the dreams of a naive little girl,_ she scolded herself. _A little girl who still believed in fairy tales and happy endings._ Her back ached from where Bull had clapped it, though it wasn’t his palm print that hurt. She straightened her shoulders; there was still a long way to travel before reaching Halamshiral.

 

 

Furious pounding pulled Annabelle from a restless sleep. Wearily she pushed herself up and made her way out into the parlor of her and Taylor’s small suite, blearily reaching for the door before remembering to grab a large robe, the one big enough that the sleeves fell past her hands. Cautiously she opened the door, her left arm tucked close to her chest. “Hello?”

The Iron Bull loomed in the dark hallway outside. “Bull!” she gasped. Terrified thoughts of the earlier night flew through her head. She’d heard there’d been fighting in the ballroom, a bloodbath in the servants wing, even an assassination of some sort. “Is Cullen -”

“The Commander is fine. It’s the Inquisitor,” he rumbled. “We need the apothecary.”

Annabelle went cold. Turner had spent much of the evening enjoying the perks of being a master guildsman at an imperial ball. He’d returned early, drunk out of his mind, and proceeded to show her exactly how he felt about all of her ‘displays’ over the last several weeks. It had been overdue, really. But now he was passed out drunk, all of his desires satiated.

Bull pushed past her, making his way towards Turner’s room. “Turner!” he shouted. Annabelle peered past Bull into the room, and could see that his shout had done nothing to rouse the man. Bull picked him up, smelled his breath, and tossed him back on the bed in disgust. “Do you know where he keeps his supplies?” he asked, turning his attention to Annabelle.

She nodded, several bits of information falling into place. If they needed the “But . . . the potion you need, there’s none prepared. It’s more potent the sooner it’s taken, so he was planning on making it as necessary.”

Bull growled in frustration. “Can you make it?”

Annabelle froze. She had access to the ingredients, but Turner kept all of their equipment locked in a chest runed for him alone to access. She needed a burner, she needed the flasks, she needed - 

A mage. She needed a mage.

“I - yes.” She glanced at Turner in his semi-comatose state. There was no other way. “Grab that bag, and lead the way. Quickly!”

Bull did as she said, moving far more swiftly than she would have thought such a large man was capable, and she jogged to keep up, still holding her arm close to her chest. “Bull,” she panted. “I need a mage. One good with barriers, and fire.”

He nodded, pausing mid-stride to pound on a door they were passing. “Dorian! It’s an episode, we need a mage!”

_He can’t possibly comprehend that all if he was asleep until Bull hit the door,_ Annabelle had time to think before muffled cursing sounded and a moment later a gorgeous man of dark complexion burst from the door, haphazardly pulling on clothes and darting down the hall after them. 

“Fasta vas, Bull, slow down! What’s going on? Why is a mage necessary this time?” 

“Ask the apothecary, kadan, I just hit things.”

Dorian reached out to grab her arm for balance as he pulled a sock on, and Annabelle gasped in pain, wrenching her arm away.

Bull stopped, and Dorian looked at her in concern. “Are you alright?”

Her arm was once more cradled to her chest, lightning flashes of pain settling back to a dull ache. She stared at the two men in horror. “It’s . . . nothing,” she finally whispered. They had to get to the Inquisitor.

Dorian huffed and in a moment, a flame blossomed on his hand and he gasped softly as the light danced off her face.

Her face was a mess of colored bruises. The robe hid most of her body, but it was obvious from the way they trailed down her neck and collarbones that there was more damage than what they could see.

Bull regarded her solemnly. “And your arm?” he finally asked.

Annabelle sighed in defeat and silently pulled up the left sleeve to show the awkwardly twisted limb. “We need to help the Inquisitor,” she whispered.

The men exchanged angry glances, then nodded. “This isn’t done with,” Bull warned her. “Not in the slightest.”

Fear shook Annabelle, but she nodded resolutely. “Let’s go.”


End file.
